The Boy Who Hated His Life
by JustBeAQu33n
Summary: Addiction, temptation, darkness, dreams... AU, Harry's 7th year and the happenings therein; R for later evilness on my part


DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter or the Harry Potter books. They belong to J.K. Rowling and various official publishers. I am not making any money off of this nor do I intend to. I'm a fan. This is fanfiction. Etcetera etcetera

Also, this is rated R for violence, cursing, adult situations (not necessarily involving sex), depression (ok, so that's not a rated R thing, but oh well) and overall fucked-up-ness, all of which will escalate in later chapters

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><p><strong>The Boy Who Hated His Life<strong>

The boy stood before a blood red velvet curtain; so close, he could smell the oldness of it, the faint washes of rose perfume and dust. He could hear talking, whispering, murmuring in the shadows, the shadows that danced around the bottom of the curtain and hid the walls of the room. Shadows that seemed to slink and slither like shaded snakes. Snakes… muttering snakes… "He is so angry… He will kill her," they said.

The curtain was slowly pulled away, sending spirals and furls of ancient dust and roses into the still air. He stood there, bathed in scents and feelings and sorrows long since cold and dead.

There was a woman across the room. A woman wearing a long crimson gown that matched the auburn locks of hair that cascaded around her shoulders. She was crying. She was sobbing. Wracking sobs that ripped through the room and made the boy shiver.

"Please," she whispered, groping, clutching at the arm of a man. There was a man there, a tall man wearing a black cloak that skimmed the ground, a man with his back to the boy, staring above the woman's head at nothing.

"Please," she gasped again, her cheeks blushed with crying, "Please, Tom, please…"

"Where is he?" The voice was so cold. Colder than the north wind that hissed and howled on midwinter nights, colder than it was when happiness was gone… so cold.

"Please, Tom…" She gripped his hand, desperation echoing in her voice.

The man snatched his hand away, and turned to glare disdainfully down at the cowering, sobbing woman. The boy could see the man's profile silhouetted again a candle burning in the corner. Hawk nose, thin lips set into a straight line, brows lowered in hate. "Don't touch me," he hissed, "You traitor! You whore!"

"Tom, please!"

"I loved you!" he backed away, boots clicking and scraping along the floor. "Me! I loved no one but you! I would have given you everything! I would have handed you the world!"

"Tom!" The woman was motionless in frozen fear, her emerald eyes staring up at him, reflecting pure terror. "My lord, please!" she whispered, "Have mercy!"

"Mercy?" the man's voice dropped to a deadly quiet. "I am not merciful. Not even to you, the only thing I have ever loved. Now, where is my son?" his voice was barely audible, yet it had the woman quaking and shaking as if he held a dagger at her throat.

"There was no son," she whispered.

"Fine," the man said. "Lie. I will find him anyway."

"Please! Tom, please!" the woman was almost hysterical, her eyes fixated on the man's face as if entranced, her hands clenched as if she was preparing herself for ultimate pain. Suddenly her bright, tear-streamed green eyes fell from the man's face and she stared straight at the boy, who had been watching, dread growing ever stronger in his heart. She let out a strangled sob when she saw him, and began to back across the floor as if in fear. "No!" she whispered. "No! You can't be!"

Slowly, catlike, the man turned. His cloak hissed across the floor and his boot heels clicked. Slowly, so slowly, he faced the boy.

The boy stared into the man's face. So familiar, it was… the black hair, the thin, aquiline nose, the wide mouth and angular jaw and cheekbones. And the eyes… the red, slit cat eyes… A faint, crooked smile twisted the man's lips. "So," he whispered, he hissed, "So you're what she hid from me."

"No!" the woman shrieked. "No! It's not him, Tom, please! There was no son!"

The man with the blood eyes ignored her, staring into the boy's face. Then he began to laugh, a high, cold, mirthless laugh that made the boy shiver uncontrollably as though ice water were being injected into his soul.

Then his head erupted in pain.

With a gasp Harry Potter woke up. The searing pain in his head sent streaks of fire through his body, burning his soul and sending hot tears into his eyes. It was as if a lightning brand had been pressed against his forehead; he could almost smell the smoke…

Slowly, the pain faded. Very slowly.

He was sweating. His black hair was plastered to his temples and to the still burning scar in the center of his forehead. His bedclothes were knotted around his legs and his pillows had long since fallen to the floor. The room was silent except for the faint trill of crickets outside his window, and the soft breaths of the wind as it fluttered past his curtains.

He'd dreamt that dream before. A hundred times, it seemed. And yet every time the dread cascaded over him, chilling his soul, and every time that the man had looked at him and laughed his scar had exploded in excruciating pain.

Harry rubbed his forehead, feeling the faint stings and prickles that came with his touch. He'd had the scar since he was a year old, since that fateful Halloween night… the night his parents were murdered by the most powerful dark wizard that had ever been. A wizard with red, cat-slitted eyes… Lord Voldemort. But the tall man in his dream wasn't Voldemort, not yet… no, it was Tom Riddle. And the auburn-haired woman with those sobbing emerald eyes…

Harry felt the swirls of dread and unease snake their way into his stomach.

He sat up, tired, groping for his glasses on the bedside table. The room around him came sharply into focus, revealing a desk piled high with old, leather-bound books, an ancient wardrobe whose left door was perpetually ajar because of crookedness, and a wooden trunk at the foot of his bed. There were a few odd things here and there: a shiny broomstick reflecting the moonlight in the corner, a wicker owl cage near the open window, a roll of white parchment lying at random on the floor…

Harry glanced at the digital clock by his bed, seeing that it was only five fifteen in the morning… it was a hour before his aunt or uncle would awake, and quite a few before his cousin, Dudley, would even consider moving from his new waterbed.

He sighed, depression washing over him. He stared out the window, seeing the summer fireflies drift around the ornamental cherry tree that was planted outside. Its branches and dark paper leaves rustled as another cool breeze swept into his room, chilling him. He looked past the tree and up at the sky, wishing, as he did so often, that he were flying, flying away from the despondent black nothingness of his life.

He fell onto his back, surveying the spiderweb cracks on the ceiling and pondering what he would tell Arabella Figg this time. She came once a week to check up on him, wearing her strange, bland Muggle dresses and walking one of her numerous cats on a bright violet leash. He'd actually thought she was a Muggle, if a strange and mostly senile one, until she showed up at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor in his fifth year. He found out that she was actually a powerful witch, retired, of course, who had been an Auror in the days when Voldemort was just gaining power. She was in the Order of Phoenix and a very close friend to Albus Dumbledore, Hogwarts' headmaster…

Harry frowned, the prickles of resentment burning his heart. He hated thinking about it, and yet he couldn't help it. Harry felt the anger swirling in him. He wanted to break something, smash something, burn something, he was so angry. He remembered the moment, the first moment he'd ever disliked Dumbledore…

[flashback…]

Hermione had come rushing up to his dormitory, where he was polishing his Firebolt for the Gryffindor vs. Ravenclaw Quidditch match the next afternoon. It was a sunny, breezy, blue-skied day, only a few weeks until the end of the term. Harry had been expecting he'd be able to stay with the Weasleys that summer, like he'd done the summer before, and perhaps help Mr. Weasley, the de facto Minister of Magic, with his duties at the Ministry, which was desperately trying to keep a hold on order as Voldemort slowly rose again.

"Harry!" Hermione leapt onto his bed, eyes ecstatic, bushy brown hair bouncing and frizzing every which way.

Harry grinned at her, wondering what she was so pleased about. "What's going on, Mione?"

"Professor Dumbledore! He's asked me to work under Ariette Rénard in France this summer, researching the more obscure Dark Arts for the Order. I'm so excited! This is what I've been hoping for! I'll be able to help in the fight against You-Know-Who!" She was positively beaming, gripping her black school robes in excitement. "I didn't expect to be able to do this! I mean, before seventh year and everything…"

Harry grinned even more broadly at her. "That's great. I guess Professor Dumbledore didn't want to wait until you're Head Girl next year to benefit from your genius. And don't even try saying that you might not be Head Girl," Harry looked pointedly at Hermione, who had been about to say something. Instead she blushed.

"Well-" she was about to say something, most likely concerning the certainty she'd be Head Girl, when Ron burst into the room, much the same way as Hermione did. His freckled face was flushed, but he was smiling maniacally.

"Harry! Mione! Dumbledore just talked to me," Ron said breathlessly, "He wants me to help my dad at the Ministry this summer, hunting for possible traitors… you know, that whole Department of Mysteries problem right now? They're all quiet and closed-up and aren't saying much… Dumbledore's convinced they're spies, and dad's going to be watching people to find out who might be traitorous… And I get to help! This is brilliant!"

They chatted for a while, that is, mostly Hermione and Ron chatted, for Harry didn't have any news concerning the upcoming summer.

"Perhaps, Dumbledore hasn't told you your place yet," Hermione offered, still smiling. "I mean, if he wants Ron, of all people, to help with the Cause, then he'll definitely want you."

"Hey!" Ron slapped Hermione good-naturedly on her arm.

Harry shrugged. "Yeah. I'll go talk to him."

They'd won the Quidditch match with ease, securing Gryffindor's place as the holders of the Hogwarts Quidditch cup. Harry had been ecstatic when he ran into Dumbledore in the hall on his way to supper.

"Professor Dumbledore!" Harry grinned.

"Hello, Harry," Dumbledore smiled softly, his icy blue eyes twinkling. "That was a wonderful match. I must say, you are an excellent Seeker… but I'm sure you already know that?"

"Thanks," Harry blushed slightly, not used to random praise from the headmaster. "Actually, Professor, there is something I'd like to ask you about," he had suddenly remembered his conversation with Hermione and Ron the day before. "I was wondering if I might be able to work for the Order of the Phoenix this summer. Doing anything. I mean, besides my, er, dreams," Harry frowned slightly, faint shivers tickling his spine, then continued, "I'd really like to be able give something to the Cause, even if its addressing letters for owlpost," he secretly hoped that was not what he would do… but, it was better than nothing.

Dumbledore frowned, and his blue eyes flashed what looked like pity before he sighed heavily. "Harry, as you know the Order of the Phoenix is working very hard at the moment to organize plans and ways to defeat Lord Voldemort. You, as I'm sure you know, are an integral part of any plan we create. You are a very important key. Because of that, I can't let you work for the Order… except with your dreams, of course, which you do already. You're too important to risk losing, Harry. I hope you understand that."

Harry stared at Dumbledore, unbelieving, his glasses sliding slightly down his nose. "So I'll just stay at Ron's house all day? While he goes into the Ministry?"

Again Dumbledore sighed. "As you know, Harry, Voldemort is gaining power, and gaining it very quickly. He can't be allowed to become all-powerful, to rule. It would be chaos. You, as I said before, are very important and hold the answer to his defeat, I know it. Therefore, you are a key target and must be protected."

Harry felt his stomach drop.

"So, and I know how hard this is for you Harry, you must stay at your aunt and uncle's house this summer, where Professor Figg can keep an eye on you and you're perfectly safe."

"Can't you just put lots of wards around the Weasleys' house?" Harry asked softly, after a rather long and awkward pause, his voice strange. "Wouldn't I be safer there, with wizards all around me?" Harry knew he was beginning to sound desperate. This couldn't really be happening… the Dursleys? He'd be absolutely cut off from the wizarding world, at the moment when it was crucial for him to know what was going on!

"No. The Weasleys' is a magical house, Harry. Any strange spells and curses would just sink into the atmosphere of magic and we wouldn't know you were in danger. The Dursleys' is a very Muggle home. If any spell were performed, even Apparation," Harry wondered suddenly if Dumbledore knew that he, Ron, and Hermione had learned to Apparate just two months before. At the non-calculating look on Dumbledore's face as he continued, Harry decided that he did not. "—the Ministry would know at once. Therefore, you'll be very safe from danger."

Harry had never disliked or been disappointed in Dumbledore before. Dumbledore had always been the wise, kind, sly man who'd understood Harry and who had never treated him the way that so many other people did. Dumbledore had never treated Harry like "The Great Harry Potter"… but now, he was. He was treating him like some sacred, unbreakable thing that couldn't, for the life of it, take care of itself.

[end flashback…]

Harry hadn't told anyone about the resentment that pooled ever deeper in his soul. He was a child to them, and Harry wasn't even sure that when the time came for him to battle Voldemort that the Order would let him for fear he might scratch himself.

"Heaven forbid I might actually get hurt," he muttered, staring at his ceiling. In a way, he was helping the Order, by telling them about the occasional dreams that linked themselves to Voldemort's current actions. The dreams of wizards being tortured endlessly in some unknown dark place, where Voldemort hissed and the Death Eaters cackled in sadistic pleasure. Those dreams, the current dreams, were the ones the Order wanted… they wanted them so bad that they had Harry take a vision-enhancement potion before he slept each night, hoping to strengthen the painful connection between Harry's and Voldemort's minds. Unfortunately, with the potion came other dreams… the old dreams. The dreams of Tom Riddle, the dreams of the beautiful woman with the fiery hair and brilliant green eyes…

Somehow, he'd wandered to the bathroom. The icy water cascaded over his body as he stood in the shower, not bothering with shampoo or soap. He stood there, willing reality to wash away, to wash away the almost constant burning on his forehead and the dull pain in his conscience that came from the lies… the lies he made up each week for Professor Figg, the brilliant lies that he wished were true…

The water was so cold his muscles were beginning to ache and he was beginning to shiver uncontrollably. Please, he willed the shower of ice needles splashing against his upturned face, please take this away… I hate this life, I hate being me. I don't think I can live up to their expectations, but then again they'll probably never let me try… Again the swirl of resentment. I am not a child.

Wrapped in two particularly fluffy towels and having never actually washed his hair, Harry wandered back to his room, trying not to think about his dream but wanting to at the same time. That woman…

"Oh, hello, Hedwig," he murmured, shutting the door behind him and smiling softly at his snowy owl. "Brought me something, have you? How nice."

Pulling back on his pajama pants he went and unstrapped two rolls of parchment from his owl's leg, stroking her absentmindedly. He recognized the handwritings immediately and smiled. He opened the first, seeing his name scrawled messily across the front.

Harry-

Hey! How's everything in the Muggle world? I just got back from the Ministry with dad and got your letter. Don't worry; there are only three weeks of summer left… and then back to Hogwarts! Imagine, we'll be seventh-years! Have you got your letter yet? Mum keeps hinting at wanting me to be a prefect, an "official" one, that is, not like last year… I don't think my marks are good enough, even though I did all right on the O.W.L's… say, are you taking the N.E.W.T's in the spring? I don't know if I will. Mione wants me too. I guess I should, if I want to get a good paying job. Although, with the way things with You-Know-Who are shaping up, just my experience at the Ministry should guarantee me a job. It's bad. Seven people have been found massacred in the past few weeks… have you had any of your dreams? You know, of You-Know-Who killing…? Well, I guess you're not supposed to tell me about them, so on to brighter subjects… so your cousin actually has a girlfriend? That's sickening, no offense. The blood connection between you two must be thread thin. Don't worry; she's only going to be there for a week, right? I'd ask you here, but… Well, I've got to go. Hedwig looks grumpy (because of that little prat owl wannabe, Pig), so I'll send this with her now. Ginny says hi. Talk to you soon.

-Ron

P.S. Mione wants to tell Dumbledore about us being able to apparate… I think it'd probably be a good idea, you know, so he can better know your powers. But, we decided it's your decision, as you were the one who figured it out in the first place.

Harry had been smiling slightly as he read the letter, his mood lifting at Ron's obvious cheerfulness. He frowned at the last part however… Apparition had been their secret, their game, similar to his father's days as Prongs the Animagus with his friends. Why should they tell Dumbledore? It was illegal, after all! 'So he can better know your powers…" What? Why? All he needs me for is my dreams… it's awfully convenient Voldemort used my blood to bring himself back. My blood…his blood. The bond… and that stupid, fucking dream-enhancement potion! Just using me! Tying me to him tighter…

Ah, so resentful, Harry, his mind scolded darkly.

Hedwig was looking concerned, twittering softly, and Harry realized he'd crumpled up Ron's letter unconsciously, and it was beginning to smoke slightly. He dropped the note quickly, panicked that Figg might show up demanding to know what was going on, but nothing happened. Only the rustling of the cherry tree and Hedwig's reassuring hoots.

"It's all right, Hedwig," he sighed, scratching her head, "I'm just a little irritable today," no kidding, his mind said dryly, "Well, let's see was Mione has decided to write." He could tell Hedwig wasn't buying his false cheerfulness, and neither was he, himself. He unfolded the letter quickly, welcomed with Hermione's lacy scrawl.

Harry:

Wow! Summer's almost over! Can you believe it? Ron and I already went school shopping (sorry that you couldn't come) and the books I bought for Advanced Arithmancy (you know how much I adore that class!) look so incredibly fascinating! I can't wait! And I bought Crookshanks a new carrying case, some new robes, and all sorts of other odds and ends for classes. Anyway, have you gone shopping yet? I'm sure you aunt and uncle wouldn't take you (knowing them), but you might be able to convince Sirius to take you, what with his name being cleared and all. That was so wonderful! I'm so grateful to Dumbledore for finally getting that all cleared up with the Ministry. They need all the allies they can get in these times… speaking of allies, I have some rather strange news. I haven't told Ron yet, but I thought I should tell you since, well, you're so *close* to You-Know-Who and all and you should know who's on whose side and everything… Actually, I shouldn't be even telling you this through owlpost. Anyone could get a hold of this and then I'd never forgive myself for the consequences. I'll just tell you when I see you on our trip to Hogwarts. Only three weeks away! Then you'll be rid of the Dursleys forever! I'm so sorry they're giving you such a hard time this summer… but cheer up! Soon we'll be back at school, and with the way the Order's working now, Voldemort should be defeated. We must be strong. Well, I have to go. I have work with Ariette soon. Paris sure is lovely in the summer! See you soon!

Love,

Hermione

Harry sighed. She seemed optimistic about the future. It was true that after these three weeks were over, he'd never have to see or speak to or endure the Dursleys ever again. Hell, Voldemort could come and blow them up and I wouldn't even know, or care. He shook his head, slightly shocked. Since when have I been so cold? These dreams of his must really be getting to me… along with the lies… and the depression… and the book.

Harry shivered slightly, his eyes slowing moving to where it lay, barely visible beneath other books, on his desk. He knew he shouldn't have it. He knew Figg would throw a fit and Dumbledore would scold him severely for having it. But he'd known that from the moment he'd touched it.

The book was inconspicuous enough. Harry had been browsing through one of the obscure, used bookshops in Diagon Alley with Figg at the start of the summer, when the monotony and the depression were just beginning to sink in. It had been a sunny day with cool winds: the kind of weather that would have been exquisite for Quidditch practice had Harry been allowed to fly.

He'd seen it on a lower bookshelf, a dusty red spine embossed with glinting, once-gold-now-rusty colored letters that read: "The Correlation between Quiditch and Politics." He wouldn't have given it a second thought (strange books on politics, especially those that included Quidditch, were not high on his to-read list) except for the misspelling of the name of his favorite wizarding sport. One D? And then he'd picked up the book and felt the strange, burning charge in his fingers that shot up through his arms and to his mind. It was a hot feeling, oddly erotic, and it whispered his named seductively, tempting him to open the book… open the book… oppppennnn itttt…

Head spinning, he'd opened it. He'd expected light, fire, screams… pleasure… but, all he saw was just the title page. Same misspelling. And yet… still his hands burned and there was a strange ache in his stomach, something so alike and yet so different from hunger. And as he brought the book closer to his face, studying it, trying to ignore his racing heart and breathing, he'd smelled the oldness and felt the desire to read the entire thing through again and again until he had found it, that fire, that pulsing electricity…

Harry, back in the present, forcefully looked away from the book. He had been intrigued, no doubt, and had bought it for practically nothing. And then, after nights of reading, he'd figured it out, he'd broken the spell. He'd whispered the words and felt his hair blown back, vaguely aware that the book had changed, but paying attention only to the exhilaration he felt and the ecstasy that had been icing through him in agonizing shivers. And the Order would throw me in Azkaban if they knew that I have it… he laughed softly, coldly. A banned book… glamour has been illegal for centuries, dark wizards have even forgotten about it… And now…

Harry looked at himself in the mirror, seeing the same face that he saw every morning. The face that the world associated with hope and salvation, his peers with Quidditch genius, he with bad luck. If only he could change it… a little sharper here, nose a little longer there, lips paler, hair neater, eyes older and darker… Harry had to forcefully yank his arm away from a mid summoning of his wand, which lay in the darkness under his bed in a velvet-lined box.

No. I will not do that.

And why not? Oh, so cold and sly that voice. Snake-like, and yet so his own.

It's dark magic, illegal. Evil. Like him …

But his magic hurts, glamour won't hurt anyone. It'll make you feel better, unknown, happier… it'd make you feel so good… Allure, shadows… since when had his inner commentary included such a voice? It was like the voice in his dreams, that oh-so-cold voice that sent him trembling, the voice and its matching red cat snake eyes, that soft, deadly voice… Tom's voice.

He shivered, the dream washing over him again… the roses, the curtains, the pain, his eyes, the red-haired woman whose face was not quite familiar…

Harry jumped at the loud knocking on his door, followed by Vernon's muffled growling, "Get up, boy! Get breakfast going! And get that hell hole of a room spotless and normal before Angela gets here!" Loud footsteps. Stomping down the stairs. The sound of Aunt Petunia's hairdryer.

Since when did they get up so early? Harry glanced quickly at his clock, seeing it read seven thirty. Oh. His eyes narrowed. I must not have been paying attention… dreaming… pondering… wishing I could look like someone, anyone, else…

Stop it. Just stop it, Harry. I need to quit feeling so damn sorry for myself.

I have every right to feel sorry for myself. They're ruining my life. Everyone is! If only I could be someone, anyone, else…

Stop it! Think about other people. Think about Angela and about how pathetic her life must be.

He smiled dryly. Dudley's girlfriend was arriving this afternoon, to stay a few days. Harry disliked judging people he didn't know, but… It's Dudley, for fuck's sake! My life cannot compare to that…

Still grinning slightly, he wandered out of his room and down the steps.

Breakfast was rather uneventful. Vernon complained about anything and everything, from the governmental policy to Harry's frown, a now permanent feature whenever in his uncle's - or Petunia's or Dudley's, for that matter - presence. It was a mixture of disgust, overall unhappiness, and a barely visible streak of hate that made the green of his eyes darker behind his glasses.

Harry was about to leave the kitchen for the outdoor sunshine (which was bearable only in comparison to the Dursleys) that simply yelled to the Quidditch seeker inside of him, when Vernon grabbed his wrist.

Harry hissed unconsciously through his teeth, and slowly turned to look at his beefy uncle. "Yes?" he asked, his voice soft, his eyes hard.

"When that Figg woman comes today," uncle Vernon's face was reddening, "tell her not to visit again this week. I don't want Angela to be disturbed by such abnormality. And you … you better not do a thing wrong or I'll make sure you never set foot near this house again, Dark Wizard or no Dark Wizard! Your kind is all Dark anyway, I don't know what it matters… but what does matter is that you do not do anything that will upset Angela! Make sure that bird of yours is gone for the week and all your damn books are hidden. You understand?

"Of course," Harry said icily, wrenching his hand out of Vernon's grip. "No problem," his voice dripped with loathing and sarcasm, and knew his uncle could hear it. He didn't feel like pushing the matter though; his scar still ached slightly and he had to prepare himself for Figg. Witches and wizards, especially ex-Aurors, are adept at sensing deceit. Therefore, Harry had to lie so well that for those few moments when he looked at Figg with soft eyes and a shy smile he actually believed himself. Those moments were wonderful. He actually felt needed, loved, good… at those times the other dreams didn't exist, the glamour book and its temptation didn't exist, the real Harry Potter didn't exist…

Petunia's garden smelled like summertime, and as Harry lay on the grass staring up at the morning blue of the sky, the summertime became the faint scent of roses, fresh roses that washed into oldness, slipping past his nose as he pondered the dream, the dream's blood curtains and snake shadows, the man and the woman and the child…

"There was no son," she whispered.

Tom Riddle had a son? Didn't have a son? A son… suddenly, Harry sat straight up, heart beating, scar burning, panic pumping adrenaline through his body. He clenched his fists in dread as the idea blazed before his eyes. That can't be… that couldn't be… the woman… she isn't, she wasn't, couldn't be my… my… The garden was gone, the sky was gone, all he could see was the woman, the red-haired, green-eyed woman begging … "Tom, please! My lord, please have mercy!"

I loved no one but you… Harry suddenly felt resentful of the woman, he felt betrayed, hurt, hateful… I loved you… I would have given you everything… You traitor!

No! That's Voldemort, not me! His mind screamed in panic, trying to desperately gain control as an icy laugh echoed through his head. I don't even know her! I don't know her! I don't know her! She's not my… she's not…

The woman's face appeared again, crying, sobbing, suddenly screaming as if pain itself caressed her… Stop! You're hurting her! Stop it!

"You traitor! You whore!"

"Please, Tom! Please… please! My lord! Harry, please! Harry!"

Someone was shaking him. The world was fading. The shadows were hissing… it was gone.

Harry blinked, the summer garden coming into focus, the flowers, the grass, the blue horizon of the sky blocked by high fences and trees. Arabella Figg stood before him, old gray eyes worried, face set in a frown, holding two leashed cats in her arms. She wore a bag of a dress that was a strange shade of purplish-brown mauve and little pointy black shoes.

"Harry, are you all right?" Why was she looking at him like that, as if seeing someone else? A shiver went up Harry's spine.

He took a deep breath; focusing, concentrating… he must believe. He looked up at her with a sheepish smile. "Sorry… Yes, I'm fine. I must've fallen asleep. It's such a beautiful day out today."

Figg's face relaxed visibly. "Yes, indeed it is. Well, I can't stay long today, Harry. This will probably be my last visit this summer as well. Of course, assuming You-Know-Who doesn't attack anything in your dreams and elsewhere," her voice was crisp and rather terse.

Why doesn't she like me…?

"So, I'm assuming no out-of-the-ordinary dreams this week, Harry?"

"What? Oh, no, not this week. My scar's been hurting a bit," Harry rubbed his head with a faint smile, his eyes a soft green that shielded the deadly concentration in his head. He was beginning to sweat. "But that's not all that unusual since, well, since then."

Figg nodded quickly. "Well, I'm going to Hogwarts tomorrow to begin preparing for classes in a few weeks. You've already gotten your supplies, so all that's left is getting a ride from your uncle and aunt on September 1st. I'm assuming they'll take you…?"

Harry grinned ruefully, "Yeah, but it'll take some persuading. I think the fact that this is my last summer with them, ever, might make them want to get me out of here as quickly as possible," Harry paused, dreading having to ask Uncle Vernon about getting a ride but trying (though not that hard) not to show it. "If you're not here, Professor Figg, how will I be, you know, watched?"

"The house is still going to be monitored and if you have any dreams you must contact the Order immediately at Hogwarts," she raised an eyebrow at him in anticipation.

"Right. I know."

"Good. Well, Harry, your help has been critical to the Order's work this past year. Continue to take the potion; not too much, of course. Have a good rest of summer," she smiled and patted him on the head and wandered out of the garden, cats in tow.

Harry's back was slick with sweat, sweat not from the summertime heat, when he let out a breath of relief and sank onto the grass. He hated that. The concentration, the affectation. It was exhausting and depressing.

He stared up at the sky with half-lidded green eyes, shivering slightly as soft winds slid past him. He could imagine what Ron was doing right now; either working with his father at the Ministry, surrounded by magic instruments, or soaring on a broomstick with his brothers and Ginny, practicing for the upcoming Quidditch season. Hermione was probably reading in some vaulted library in France, chewing on the end of her quill as she often did.

But I'm stuck here, on the ground, at the Dursley's, with fucked up dreams of Tom Riddle and a woman that looks so much like my mother… dreams that are messing with my mind. I can't even visit Diagon Alley and see other wizarding people… I would stand out. Everyone remembers Harry Potter, the Harry Potter. The Order would be so pissed…

Again the scents of summertime faded into roses, and Harry wished nothing more than to either rip something in frustration or float away full moon has been linked to the werewolves. Conversely, unlike 'movie werewolves', real werewolves change shape voluntarily. A real werewolf changes completely, becoming the entire animal rather then the hairy half beast. The full moon business is a dramatic license. In other words, the full moon does not involve the were-creatures at all – in fact only is a dreadfully incorrect rumor. However, the madness level of humans does increase, and the bond between man and beast becomes unusually…strong.

- This is not Twilight. This is not a fairytale.

A pack of quarried wolves balanced on the morning glow of the winter's frost. Boreal forests, stripped of their leaves cascaded over their slim bodies. The alpha male with his gleaming silver coat grunted and snorted out of an annoyance that hovered over him, as he paced back and forth. The members of the small pack watched their leader with wide eyes, filled with impatient – but not inching a muscle from their spot. Coal colored lips were caked in saliva and ivory fangs hung out with toasty warm tongues. Golden hues emitted from the orbs of the pacing wolf, as suddenly his movements froze into place – locking glances with a small winter hare. The alpha male twitches his ears, hearing the quickened beat of the rabbit's heart – it too was frozen with fear.

A moment's pause.

The cold stare between two creatures remained in stone. The remaining members of the hunting pack descended.

Silence.

The hare let its large feet take a small step back.

It signaled itself to death as a hidden member dived for the rodent creature, gripping it between barred jaws. The hare flinched; kicking it is free foot, expecting utmost pain. Eyes were tightly shut and the hare was pinned in the fangs of the possibly starving or bored beast. The loose foot of the hare limply bobbed as the ebony colored wolf with its prize, returned to its leader – and they disappeared into winter's bowels. The hare felt not pain now. Only the tight bond between the jaws of the wolf. It was not yet dead, and would not be killed. It was a gift.


End file.
